Inhale-Exhale

Breathing steadily, I focus on the tiny orange dot nestled amidst the brush. I close my outside eye, then open it, then close it again, trying to get a good judge of distance and position. I steady my breathing, trying to get it to the rhythm of the sway of my hands. I lift my head up to judge it a little better, then settle it back down, jet-metal cool against my cheek.

Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale. I wait until I have settled into the rhythm I want. The rest of the world seems to tunnel away until all that is left is the slightly bobbing orange dot. Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale. I let go a breath and squeeze the trigger at the same time. By the time the stock kicks into my shoulder the last wisp of breath has left my lungs. The crack cuts through the silence like the bullet it heralds, and then everything settles to eerie quiet.

I turn to look at grandpa. His eye is pressed up to the spotting scope, trying to see if I hit it. After a moment, he leans back and scratches at his stubble covered chin. "Damn good shot, I think you got a direct hit…. On that tree a few yards back." He lets out a full belly laugh at the joke. I chuckle a bit with him. "But pretty dang close for such a small target." He says reassuringly as he slaps my back with his big meaty hand.

He takes out a cigarette and lights it as I pop open the chamber for the rifle. As it opens, the little copper shell springs out and tumbles to the wooden deck. He takes a deep drag on the burning paper stick as I load in the next round, then lets it out as I let the chamber snap closed and lean down to aim again. The smoke blows its way to me and I let out a little wheeze of a cough as the acrid smelling air lightly burns its way down my lungs.

"Sorry, boy. Forgot you don't like the smell o' this stuff." He says as he pickes up his gear and moves to the other side of me. Setting it down, he takes another drag and flicks the cinders out into the grass. I watch the red hot bits carefully for a moment before they go dark.

Setting the stock against my shoulder again, I say to him "You know, you shouldn't just flick it out into the grass. You could start a fire that way." I focus down the sight, making sure I have the barrel where I want it before I let it settle down on the wooden rail.
He takes another long drag, then flicks the whole thing off into the grass, only a few inches from the first set of cinders. I grimace at the tiny stream of smoke that wafts from the grass. "My goddamn lawn an' my goddamn house. I'll burn it down if I wan'to." He grumbles under his breath as he makes minute adjustments for the site.

I give him a slanted glare, "Didn't Your Doctor tell you not to smoke anymore of those since you narrowly avoided lung cancer last year." I chastise him. I wag a slender finger at him as I tell him "And you aught to be saving your money the way the economy is right now anyway, those things are expensive these days."
He gives me a slanted look. "I've lived too long as it is. And besides, if I leave you too much for your inheritance, you'll get spoiled. Now git back to shootin'." He scratches at his stubble again. "Ahhh… Allright. Tell you what, I won't smoke the rest of the week if you can hit the target at least once in the next two shots. If you hit it twice, I won't smoke the rest of the month."

"That's hardly fair, Its Sunday the 30th. You won't be smoking for less than day, what kind of bargain is that." I say to him.

"The only kind your going t' get." He shoots right back. I nod at the undeniable truth of his statement, it's a conversation that we have had many time before, in some iteration or another.

Begrudgingly I reach out my hand, and he takes it in a firm shake. I wonder for a moment at how different the two hands seem. His is covered in crags and canyons, a deep tan, and as large as a dinner plate. Mine, by comparison, might as well be a woman's hand. Slender fingers, smooth skin, and about as tan as normal fluorescent bulbs could get them. An artists hands truly, because they had a strength too them that was hidden by their delicate appearance. My mother had always told me that they were artists hands, and held in contrast to my grandfather's, I could believe it.

"So its agreed upon?" I ask.

"Just shut up and shoot the damn thing. It's starting to get cold out here." He responds, lighting up another cigarette.

I smile and lean down. This time, I line up the shot fast, just waiting for the rhythm, the moment. Once again, my breathing slows and steadies. The whole world, the wind, the leaves, the few remaining birds, all go quiet as if in anticipation. I inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale.

Inhale: finger slides off the guard and onto the trigger, relax the muscles in my shoulder just a little bit more, vision tunnels in on the target. Exhale: finger starts to squeeze the trigger, everything starts to flow toward the end of the barrel, all feeling, all worries, all thoughts. Bang: my breath is all gone as the rifle but kicks into my shoulder again, my vision jumps up a little bit, all my sensation follows the bullet out of the barrel.

I look to him again, seeking a confirmation. "God damn…" he says in awe. "Just barely missed it, I think you might have been close enough to shave the hair off it, though."

I nod. I reload the gun and set myself again, cool metal on my cheek. The smell of sulfur burns my nose as I focus in on the target again. My breath settles into a by now familiar rhythm. The world freezes once again and everything once again focuses in on the target. I hear my grandfather mumble "Last shot, then we go inside and eat," but it sounds distant, muffled.

I focus on the orange dot, and it seems to fill my view despite being no bigger than a period. It seems up-close and a million miles away. It bobs up and down and stays perfectly still, like the sun sometimes does.

Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale. The rifle but kicks into my shoulder, by now I probably have a bruise, despite the low caliber. My vision slowly kicks upward with the barrel, and my view of the orange dot is obscured by the lighter orange dot at the tip of the barrel. All sound disappears in the crack of the bullet, and I listen intently for the confirmation.

My grandpa only whistles low and smiles. "Damn that was good, best shot yet." He says. "I'm gonna have'ta put the cigarettes up for tonight." He says looking at me. "You hit that thing smack goddamn in the middle. I don't think I ever shot that well when I was in the marines." He slaps my back again, then starts rubbing my neck roughly, swaying my whole body with it. "I might just make a proper Herman outo' you yet."

I beam with approval as we pick up the gear, collecting the spent shells, closing up the ammo box, wiping whatever dirt got on the rifle off. As we start to leave the shooting deck, I go down and pick up the now extinguished cigarette and throw it in the trash.

"They got a rifle team down where you live, boy?" he asks me. I shake my head no. "Damn shame that. If they did, I bet they could beat the ass of any rifle team for a hunerd miles." I once again smile at his approval, glad for the attention, despite the bruises I'll have on my back later on.

"And when you're brother asks how many you hit, boy, we tell him you hit 'em all. All right." He says with a mischievous glint in his eye.
I laugh evilly at the prospect of poking fun at my brother, and then sigh as we step into a house full of wonderfully delicious smells.